


A Feeling, Not A Place

by highhopes (downuptime)



Category: The Good Fight (TV), The Good Wife (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-05-23
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:28:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24182887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downuptime/pseuds/highhopes
Summary: Five times Kurt took care of Diane, and one time Diane took care of Kurt.
Relationships: Diane Lockhart/Kurt McVeigh
Comments: 28
Kudos: 74





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Because what we need more of in this crazy world right now is comfort.

1.

“Hey.” Liz whispers. “You okay?”

Diane straightens herself. “I’m fine.” She jerks her chin towards the other partners who have decided once again to throw all decorum out the window to have a shouting match in the conference room. “They done yet?”

Liz shrugs. “I’d give it another minute or two.”

Diane sighs, discreetly checking her watch. It’s her fourth meeting of the day, and it’s only 4pm. She has a thousand page bundle of exhibits filled with pharmaceutical jargon to get through by the weekend for the Pullman Pharmaceuticals case, and she’d been hoping to clear two hundred pages today.

She had been on track until RD had turned up unannounced at her door, asking for the firm to help conduct a mock trial for an upcoming class action suit. Then he’d sauntered off, leaving chaos in his wake.

Normally, she would kill for a glass of Merlot right now. But what started off as a mild tension headache after lunch had gradually intensified over the course of the day. There is a faint jagged arc of light on the right side of her vision. The cacophony of voices is not helping.

She can see it in her mind’s eye, her pack of sumatriptan. On her table. Her dressing table. At home.

She closes her eyes, trying to tamper down the flare of impatience. She knows the partners are worried and panicked, and rightfully so. Adrian is still recuperating at home, they’ve been fending off numerous client poaching attempts by other law firms, and there has been a dearth of new clients thanks to the news that a _shooting_ happened right at the _front entrance_ of the firm where _clients_ normally wait.

When the shouting shows no sign of abating, she sighs and stands.

“That’s enough." There’s a bit more of an edge to her voice than she intended, and the partners fall silent immediately. “Unless anyone here has a new case that can guarantee us $600,000 in billings for just one week’s work,” she reasons, “there is no reason why we shouldn’t be taking it on.”

Milton scoffs. “What about the fact that we’re basically helping the Tea Party - “

“Oh, come on,” Julius groans, throwing his hands in the air. “If I can look past my politics, so can you!”

“They’re paying us off - that’s what they’re - “

“Yes, they’re obviously conflicting us out - “

“No, this is an opportunity for us to show Reese Dipple how good - “

“Enough!” Diane snaps. “We’re lawyers. We serve our clients’ needs, not our personal wants. We all know RD is shopping for new lawyers. That’s a potential $10 million in billings each _year_. I don’t need to tell you to do the math, especially in light of what’s happened around here.”

She raises her eyebrows, and waits for any further objections. There is nary a squeak.

“Then I believe we’re done here.” She stands and gathers her things, quickly leaving the room before she’s accosted by disgruntled partners.

Liz falls into step beside her as they stride through the hallway. “Well, things got a little heated in there,” Liz mutters. “You look a little pale. You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” she replies testily. Liz automatically raises her hands in defence. Diane sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s just a headache.”

“And the Pullman Pharmaceuticals motion.”

Diane strides into her room and sinks into her chair, dropping her head back. Her head begins to throb more earnestly.“I was supposed to get through two hundred pages today, and another eight hundred over the weekend.” The aura has decided to develop on the left side of her vision as well. “It’s not looking good.”

Liz shoots her a look of commiseration. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

She allows herself three more seconds of being slumped in her seat before she sits up and straightens her jacket. Her inbox blinks urgently at her with forty-four unread emails from the last two hours alone. Twenty are flagged important.

She rummages in her drawer and locates the bottle of Advil. Hopefully, it’ll be enough.

She sighs, pops two pills, and gets down to it.

~~~

There is no one in her office when he steps into it. But papers are sprawled across the desk, and the laptop is still open. Her handbag is on one of armchairs.

“Diane?”

There is a faint sound from the adjoining bathroom. The door is just slightly ajar, but it’s dark inside. Worry surges in him and he wrenches the door open.

“Diane!” She is curled up against the toilet, head in her arms. “What’s wrong?”

Her eyes are shut as she gestures at him to close the door and lower his volume. Immediately, he understands and complies. He kneels down next to her and lays his hand on the nape of her neck. Her skin is cold and clammy to the touch. “Did you take any medication?”

She shakes her head once. “At home. Was fine this morning.”

He knows she’s had migraines before. Most of the time, she powers through them. He’s seen her debilitated to this extent only once before. “You threw up?” he asks gently.

She nods tightly, lifting one finger.

He fills a cup with cool water and hands it to her, wrapping her clammy hands around it and helping her to take a sip. She shivers, and he takes off his jacket and wraps it around her. “I’ll be right back,” he whispers.

One phone call and a brisk walk to the nearest pharmacy later, he returns to her retching into the toilet. He hastily unboxes the Imitrex nasal spray. Diane peels one eye open at the sound of the box, and makes a face.

“It’ll work faster,” he promises. Not to mention the fact that she might not be able to keep a pill down long enough for it to work. “I’ll be quick.”

When she nods, he swiftly administers the spray. Then, he settles down on the floor next to her. “Come here,” he whispers. She moves immediately towards him.

He tugs her head onto his shoulder, and waits.

When her breathing evens out, he ventures quietly, “Think you can make it onto the couch?”

She hesitates. “Glass walls.”

“It’s 9.30 on a Friday. There’s no one outside.”

She finally nods. He takes off her heels, and helps her out to the couch, both of them collapsing ungracefully onto the couch.

“Watch your back,” she mutters, eyes closed as he guides her to lie flat with her head in his lap.

He rolls his eyes. Only his wife… “My back is fine.”

They’re silent for a while.

“We were supposed to go to La Coppola today,” she murmurs dolefully. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

She sighs and shifts on the couch. He adjusts his coat over her, and places his hand on her neck. It’s still clammy. Suppressing a sigh of his own, he plays with her hair.

After a while, he can feel her gradually relax, breaths evening out. He reaches across the couch to snag the pillow, and careful not to jostle her, stuffs it between him and the side of the couch. He props one elbow up on the armrest, and drops his head to rest on his hand. It’s surprisingly easy to drift off.

~~~

“Kurt.”

He startles awake to find Diane staring up at him. He closes his eyes and orients himself. Right. Diane, migraine, office.“Hi.”

“Hi.” Her eyes are slightly glazed and she’s no longer wincing at the dim lights.

“Feeling better?”

She exhales. “Tired,” she answers lazily.

“Pain?”

“Better.”

“Good.” He stifles a yawn and checks his watch. “Go back to sleep.”

“What time is it?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Have you been upright all night?”

“Just rest.” He pointedly closes his eyes. His wife is definitely feeling better. “It’s the middle of the night.”

“Kurt.”

Silence.

“ _Kurt_.”

He sighs, cracks open one eye and peers down at her. “It’s four in the morning, Diane.” He closes his eyes again. “Let’s just get a few more hours’ sleep.”

“But your back,” she protests. “We should go home, to bed.”

“I’m fine. Come on, let’s go back to sleep.”

“No, I’m better. We should go home.” Contrary to her assertion, she is still boneless and heavy against him. The migraine has burned through all her energy and she looks ready to drift off again. “Kurt -”

“My back is fine. Now shush.” When she opens her mouth to speak again, he places a finger over her lips and closes his eyes pointedly again. “Just rest.”

He can feel her lips quirk upwards into a smile, but she finally complies. “I love you,” she whispers

“I said shush.”

She takes his hand, intertwines her fingers with his.

As she turns, ready to curl back into sleep, he stops her and brings her hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. She huffs and curls up, tucking one hand under his knee and keeping the other intertwined with his.

His back will be sore in the morning and his right leg is starting to go numb. But with his wife pressed warm against him, the lights dim and the room silent, he drifts off steadily and quickly.


	2. Chapter 2

2.

Kurt eyes his wife critically as she sits across from him at the dining table. She's armed with a well-used yellow highlighter and a thick stack of Post-Its, and is engrossed in a thick folder of documents. Her Merlot has been all but abandoned, and it’s like he’s not even in the room with her.

Not that he minds, of course. One thing he’s learned about his wife is that she has a razor sharp focus and uncanny ability to block out any and all distractions when focused on her work. She thrives on her work. It’s one of the many things he appreciates about her.

Now, though, it seems like the never-ending stream of work is getting the better of her. There are bags under her eyes - she’s been getting up at 4.30 in the morning to squeeze in an extra two hours to review work and emails sent to her by associates late at night- and while she’s always been svelte, her collar bones are now too prominent for his liking.

The firm's business is booming, what with its influx of cases and numerous disputes going to trial this quarter. But his wife is undeniably flagging. Not that she will admit it, of course. He has no doubt that she will be able to power through the next three months working at the same punishing rate with justsheer willpower and coffee.

She’s burnt her nights and weekends for the past two months for the back-to-back trials that ran for five consecutive weeks. There is another ten-day trial coming up in two and a half weeks. Despite having a free week from court, her days are packed with depositions, meetings and trial prep. She’s turned down several gatherings with friends, and even a Democratic fundraiser with the Clintons. The _Clintons_.

He sets aside his own laptop, and goes to stand behind her, hands going to her shoulders. He digs his thumbs into the knots in her back, suppressing a twinge of worry at how sharp her bones feel. 

She hums appreciatively, her eyes never leaving the documents.

He moves his hands down, working towards that particular spot he knows will be sore from a day of being bent over documents. He knows he’s found it when she drops her head back against him, wincing slightly from the pain but eventually groaning at the relief it brings. “Now you’re just trying to distract me,” she accuses.

“Is it working?”

“Not really,” she murmurs distractedly, still focused on her reading. "Maybe." 

His hands continue to move methodically across her back until she finally gives in and sets down her pen. “Depends on what the distraction is for,” she says slyly.

He snorts at that, and reaches over to remove her glasses from where they are perched on her nose. He takes her hand, and lets him lead her to the bedroom and to the bed.

“Why, Mr McVeigh,” she purrs, putting that particular sashay in her hips.

He flashes her a crooked smile and they collapse together onto her side of the bed, limbs entangled. He presses a kiss to her forehead and before things progress any further, quickly maneuvers her under the covers and tucks her in.

“What - “

Before she can say more, he crawls over her to climb in under the covers on _his_ side of the bed, and turns the lights off.

She gets the message loud and clear. She huffs, turning to face him, her left hand tucked under her head as she stares at him in the semi-darkness. He stares right back resolutely. He’ll win this battle, he knows. 

Sure enough, she relaxes into their bed. Still, she looks peeved, probably at being lured to bed earlier than she wanted. “Rest,” he says softly, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear. “Please.”

She softens at his tone, and then sighs. “I’ve been a terrible wife lately,” she admits. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright.”

“I’ll make it up to you,” she murmurs, eyes beginning to droop. “When things die down. Promise.”

She’s never been one to fall asleep easily, usually needing time to let her brain gradually wind down after a hectic day. Lately, though, things have been different. “There’s nothing to make up to me,” he reassures.

She’s silent, asleep. Even then, her brows are furrowed.

Kurt lies there in the darkness, and thinks.

~~~

When he strolls into Reddick, Boseman and Lockhart at 5pm on a Friday afternoon, there is a frenetic energy about in the office. 

Diane hasn’t replied any of his texts since lunchtime. If everything was executed according to plan, she should be -

Well. She’s not where she was supposed to be, which is her office. It's empty. 

He looks around and finally spots Marissa in the conference room. He catches her eye and raises his eyebrows.

_Sorry_ , she mouths. She wags two downturned fingers before ending off with an exasperated eye-roll. _She just ran off_.

_When_ , he mouths back.

Marissa brings her hand to her ear in the universal gesture for a phone call, then holds up two fingers. 

Kurt shoots her a look of resignation, and she returns with a look of her own. _I tried my best_.

He’s engrossed in the copy of Newsweek that he picked up from her coffee table when she strides into her office, phone pressed to her ear. She’s wearing one of his favourite dresses - a fire red dress that fits her like a glove. Though now, it’s more like it used to fit like a glove. 

She spots him and mouths a _Hi_.

“Listen, James, my client has bent over backwards for your client. My client has no obligation to - ” she stops abruptly, and rolls her eyes. She leans over and presses a kiss to his cheek, before dropping onto the couch next to him, toeing off her heels and crossing her legs. “This is our final offer. There’s no use - look, tell her to take the weekend to think about it. The offer remains open till Monday.”

She hangs up the phone emphatically and tosses it carelessly to her side. “What an ass,” she grumbles as she drops her head back against the wall.

“Hello to you too.”

“You’re a sight for sore eyes,” she laughs as she leans in for a real kiss. “What’re you doing here? I thought we were meeting at 7.30?”

“Heard from a little bird that you’re free for the rest of the evening. Decided to try my luck, see if you could leave earlier.”

“Hmmm,” she hums as she scoops up her phone and scrolls through it. He peeks over her shoulder and her calendar is indeed clear for the rest of the evening. “Wow.”

“Wow?”

“I thought I had a meeting today at 5.30pm.”

He claps his hands together. “That settles it then. Ready to go?”

She hesitates. “Kurt, there’s still the Carlton trial prep, and I need to review -“

He stands up, and extends his hand to her.

She stares at him, then his hand. Her eyes flit back upwards to meet his. She’s tempted, he can tell. And exhausted. “It’s Friday,” he adds.

He can tell the exact moment she caves. She throws her hands in the air. “Fuck it,” she proclaims, and takes his hand. “Let’s go.”

~~~

It takes her twenty minutes into the car ride after dinner to realise that they are not headed to the apartment. She turns to him, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Where are we going?”

“The cabin,” he says simply.

“The cabin?”

“Yup.”

“And why are we going to the cabin?” _The cabin with patchy WiFi and a two hour drive away,_ he can almost hear her add. 

“Because.”

“Because?”

They conveniently stop at a traffic light. He reaches across and takes her hand. “Diane, you need a break.”

“No, I don’t.” She’s defensive. Still, she lets him hold her hand. “I’m fine.”

“Yes, you do, and no, you’re not.”

“Kurt,” she whines. “I have things to do.”

“Your schedule’s been cleared. There’s nothing pressing.”

“How do you - “ Then she rolls her eyes. “Marissa,” she sighs.

“You’re waiting for the associates to turn in their drafts. Liz has informed them they can turn it in on Sunday instead - the team’s taking the Saturday off. You don’t have a deadline on Monday.” He casts a sidelong glance at her - of course, she’s on her phone verifying everything he’s said. “Now’s as good a time as ever.”

He can see her begin to waver once she verifies what he has said. “40 hours,” he finally adds. “Just take 40 hours with me. I’ll have you back by noon on Sunday."

He lets his offer hang heavy in the air between them. Any coddling or further insinuation of weakness on her part won't help, not with his headstrong wife. 

He knows he’s sealed the deal when she does’t protest further or make him stop and turn back. She narrows her eyes at him and crosses her arms. “I don’t think I like you ganging up with Marissa. What about my things? I didn’t pack a bag.”

Kurt smirks. “I did. It’s in the boot.”

“You really thought of everything,” she concedes. She shakes her head, nonplussed. “You’re kidnapping me.”

“Yep.”

“I’m still miffed.”

He shrugs.

By the time they reach the cabin, she’s fumed herself to sleep, head resting against the window. He reaches over and squeezes her shoulder gently as he kills the engine. “We’re here.”

He grabs their bags from the boot and they stumble into the cabin together, his arm around her shoulders. He feels more relaxed already, and he can similarly feel her loosen up. They purchased the cabin - sitting on two and a half acres with a merry little creek running through it, and just a short walk from a peaceful lake - a year ago when it became clear that he missed having a home in the country, and Diane herself enjoyed having a place of retreat that they could visit on weekends or for short breaks.

It takes him a while to gather the firewood and get the fire going in their bedroom. By the time he’s done, she’s already in bed, dressed in one of his shirts and scrolling through her phone.

“You know, I did bring your pajamas for you,” he grumbles as he clambers into the bed, bare-chested. He nudges her bare legs with his cold toes.

She squirms, then peers over her glasses at him. “You really cleared my schedule.” She brandishes the phone at him accusatorially. “There’s no emails, no messages… They’ve _China-walled_ me.”

He opens his arm. Despite her obvious irritation, she obliges and leans in. “Do you trust me?” he asks.

“Of course.”

“Do you trust your team?”

“Yes, but - “

“Then everything will be fine,” he interrupts. “They wouldn’t have agreed to this if they didn’t think they could handle it. Or that you needed a break.”

“Kurt…”

“I’m worried about you, Diane." 

She tilts her head and looks up at him, her gaze softening and annoyance melting away. She wraps an arm around his midriff, and languidly hooks a leg over his. “I know,” she admits. “It’s just what I do.”

“Then let me take care of you. Just for 40 hours.” He wraps his arm tighter around her, pulling her warm body flush against his. “We’ll sleep in. I’ll make pancakes, we’ll take a nice long bath, a short walk, and maybe spend the rest of the day in bed together.” He narrows his eyes when she waggles her eyebrows. “Resting, not fucking. Lots of rest.”

“Fucking sounds good to me too.” Her eyes are wide and innocent, except she’s using that sultry tone she knows gets to him every single time. “Lazy morning fuck. Slow afternoon nap sex. We have nowhere to be, right?”

He huffs in amusement and doesn’t deign to reply. 

“Okay,” she agrees. He can hear the smile in her voice. “40 hours?”

“40 hours,” he repeats in agreement.

“Okay then.” She lets out a big yawn. She blinks, looking almost surprised at herself for yawning. “You’ve got me trapped here already.”

He draws lazy circles on her arm. They lie there like that in silence, watching the orange glow of the fire. Eventually, her breaths even out, slow and deep.

Kurt smiles to himself and presses a kiss to her hairline. She doesn’t stir.


	3. Chapter 3

3.

She wakes in an unfamiliar room in semi-darkness. It takes a while, but she soon puts together that she’s in a hospital room.

Someone’s holding her hand. She turns her head to see her husband, head propped up on a fist and folded awkwardly on what appears to be a very uncomfortable recliner.

“Kurt," she croaks. Her throat is parched. She winces, then tries again, squeezing his hand this time. “Kurt.”

He startles awake immediately, and relief immediately floods his face. “Diane,” he sighs. “Thank God.”

He brings over a cup with a straw and she sips gratefully. When her throat no longer feels like sandpaper, she clears her throat. “What happened?”

“You don’t remember?” He looks worried again.

She closes her eyes and tries to clear her mind of the fog. “Accident,” she finally says. She had been with Lucca, and they had been on their way back from a client's house. “I fell.”

“Slipped on a patch of black ice and managed to hit your head on a railing on your way down.” He presses a kiss to the back of her hand, and presses her hand against his cheek. He looks wretched, with bloodshot eyes and deep lines of worry on his face. “You were knocked out.”

No wonder her head is killing her. She lifts a hand to her head. There is a bandage on the left side of her forehead and she groans. “Five stitches," he supplies. Her eyes widen and she can feel any residual fog in her mind dissipate immediately. He harrumphs. “Lucca forced the ER doctor to summon a plastic surgeon so it shouldn’t scar,” he adds dryly.

She makes a face. He can tease her all he wants but she knows he enjoys how she takes pride in her appearance. “Remind me to get her a good gift.”

“That’s the least of your concerns.”

She follows his gaze down and finally looks at her feet. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” he replies grimly.

“It’s broken?” she groans. She glares balefully at the cast currently ensconcing her right foot.

“Yep. Surgeons put in two screws.”

“Eurgh,” she moans, dropping her head back and flinging one arm across her eyes. “I have the Sweeney trial in three weeks!”

“Last I heard, there are chairs in the courtroom.” He doesn’t try to persuade her to hand off the case, and she loves him all the more for it. “It’ll be fine.”

The thought of trying to cope with a foot in a cast in the middle of a Chicago winter _and_ wrangle Colin Sweeney and Mrs Sweeney No. 6 is exhausting her already.

“Diane, it’ll be _fine_.”

Well. She’d apparently said it out loud. “I know,” she sighs. “Just give me a moment to wallow.”

He snorts.

Her arm is still flung over her eyes when she says, “You can say it.”

“Say what?” he says just a bit too nonchalantly.

“You know.”

“I’m not saying anything.”

She drops her arm and tilts her head at him. “Nothing?”

“Nothing.” He’s adamant.

She sighs dramatically. “Then I’ll say it. You were right.” He’s silent, and his face to any outsider would be considered inscrutable. But she can read him now, after years together, and she can detect that minuscule quirk on his lips. “I shouldn’t be walking around in stilettos in the middle of winter.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” he half-heartedly protests. He leans in to peck her on the lips. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

She stares at him half indignant, half mournful. “I’m not okay. My right foot is in a cast and I have a case going to trial in 3 weeks! This is not okay!”

He reaches towards her and tilts her chin towards him, forcing her to look square in his eyes. “Diane,” he says firmly but patiently. She can practically see him tell her - _you’re being melodramatic again._ “Yes, you’re not gonna be able to wear heels, you’ll hobble around in crutches, you can’t drive. But it’ll be _fine_.” He leans back. “Besides, this is what assistants and associates are for. Oh, and _husbands_.”

“Eurgh,” is all she can muster.

~~~

She’s sitting on the bed, glaring balefully at her bare toes and cast peeking out from the cuff of her palazzo pants when he walks in and announces, “Paperwork’s done.”

She grabs the crutches from they’re leaning against the bed but he comes round and stops her. “Hang on.”

He rummages through a paper bag he had brought with him when he first arrived, and fishes out what appears to be a thick black sock with Velcro straps. He kneels down in front of her and pulls her palazzo pants up her calf to reveal the whole cast. He then wraps the thick woolly contraption gently over her cast and adjusts the straps. Finally he flips something out at the end and covers her toes.

Then, he whips out what appears to be some kind of thick rubber cap. He affixes the rubber caps on the bottom of her crutches, then tests them out himself, tapping and dragging the them on the ground to test their resistance.

“Done,” he finally proclaims when he is satisfied, handing the crutches back to her. “Shall we?”

She stares at him.

“What?”

She clears her throat, dropping the crutches against the bed again and tugging on his arm. He comes to sit next to her, and she leans in and kisses him deeply. His arms encircle her waist. “You’re a very sweet man,” she finally says when she pulls back.

He ducks his head. She looks closely and smirks at the faintest tinge of colour on his cheekbones. “It’s twenty degrees and snowing out. God forbid you slip and fall again.”

“I know. It’s very sweet.” She laughs throatily when he shoots her a look, and raises her hands in defence. 

He rolls his eyes affectionately and hands her her crutches. “Come on,” he grumbles with no real heat in his voice. “Let’s get you out of here.”

When they arrive back at the apartment, she isn’t surprised when he unloads a wheelchair from the back of the car. The look he gives her brooks no argument. She sinks into it and lets him wheel her from the parking garage to the apartment.

A huge balloon of a teddy bear with a bandaged leg - emblazoned with the words “GET WELL SOON!” - greets her in the living room and she doesn't have to look at the dangling card to know that it's from Marissa. There’s also a large, beautiful flower arrangement from the partners of the firm. There’s a hamper of treats and wine from Maia, and a few cards propped up on the shelf.

“Couch or bed?”

“Bathroom.”

He wheels her to the bathroom door, and she stands and hobbles into the bathroom. She awkwardly balances herself with one hip against the bathroom counter and leans into the mirror, inspecting the stitches on her forehead. Very even, very neat. She sighs and pulls back, running her fingers through her hair and wincing. She needs a nice, hot shower.

There’s a stack of plastic on one of the cupboard shelves. Her gaze travels to the shower, where there’s a small white stool tucked in the corner. “Kurt?” she calls. “What’s the stack of plastic for?”

“To cover your cast when you take a shower or bath. Keeps it from getting wet,” he answers from somewhere out in their bedroom. She glances back at him. He’s unpacking her bag and putting her things away.

“And the stool?”

“It’s easier for you to sit while showering and keep the cast dry. Easier to get into the tub too.” He pops his head into the bathroom. “Need anything?”

“A hot shower.”

He immediately comes to help her. She strips off her clothing as he removes the woolly cover over her cast, and replaces it with one of the plastic wraps. When he’s satisfied that she’s not going to mortally injure herself, he steps out, asking, “Pork chops?”

“Sounds wonderful,” she replies, flashing him a grateful smile and watching fondly as he leaves the bathroom.

While he has wrapped her cast meticulously and she does not expect it to be anything less than waterproof, it’s still better to be safe than sorry. It’s awkward and cumbersome to shower with one leg extended out the shower door, and she feels old for having to sit while showering. When she’s finally done, she clambers to her feet, towels herself off and exits the shower. Kurt has placed a set of loungewear and her dressing gown within arm’s reach. 

She hobbles into the living area, refreshed and invigorated after a thoroughly hot shower. Kurt’s behind the stove in their open-concept kitchen, and her stomach rumbles at the mouthwatering smell that has begun to permeate the apartment.

Four boxes catch her eye in the corner of the living area. She spots on the side of them the distinctive scrawl of the first-year associate working with her on the Sweeney trial - “SWEENEY EXHIBITS”, “DEPOSITION TRANSCRIPTS”, “LEGAL AUTHORITIES” and “OTHER MATTERS”. As she drops onto her side of the couch, she spots her work laptop on the side table within arm’s reach, together with her diary and two stacks of legal pads. There is a small leather case and when she unzips it, she finds Post-Its and various flags of different colours, her favourite red pen and highlighters of assorted colours. Tucked in between the couch and the side table appears to be some sort of small table that has been folded up. It’s one of those tables that can be unfolded and its height adjusted to allow someone to work on a couch or on a bed. Affection swells inside her, her lingering anxiety and tension of losing days’ worth of trial preparation immediately disappears.

“Kurt,” she twists in the couch to look at him, biting back a smile. She gestures to the things around her. “What’s all this?”

He glances up from the chopping board and shrugs. “The Sweeney trial is in two and a half weeks.”

“Yes, but why are all the documents here?” She already knows the answer, but still. 

He gives her a look, like she’s being obtuse. She is, actually. She’s very intentionally being obtuse. “You’re not supposed to go back in to work until next week,” he says.

That had been the doctor’s order after she had balked at the doctor’s original two-week timeframe and proceeded to negotiate it down to one. Kurt had pointedly expressed no view during that conversation. His stare, however, had contained a mix of exasperation, fondness and resignation.

Her grin is growing bigger now, she can feel it. “And?”

“If the mountain will not come to Muhammad, then Muhammad must go to the mountain.” He slides a tray into the oven and wipes his hands on his apron. “It’s the only way to keep you at home.”

She breaks out into a big smile. “I could kiss you right now.”

She tracks him with her gaze as he rounds the dining table and sits down next to her. She immediately pulls him in for a kiss, wrapping her arms around his neck. She sighs contentedly. “Thank you.”

“It was this or have you make a break for the office later this week,” he grumbles.

She laughs throatily, throwing her head back. “You know me too well.”

His gaze turns serious as he tucks her damp hair behind her ear. His fingers graze lightly over her forehead, not quite touching her stitched up wound. “Does it hurt?”

“Not with the painkillers I’m on,” she jokes. It falls flat. He still looks unsettled. “Really,” she reassures him, taking his hand and intertwining their fingers. “It doesn’t hurt.”

“Be careful,” he finally says. There is a deep wrinkle in his forehead. “You scared me.”

She leans in to give him a tender kiss. “I know,” she says softly. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

He cocks his head. “You mean you won’t wear stilettos in the middle of winter again?” he teases.

“No, I meant I won’t fall and crack my head open again,” she lobs back breezily. “While still rocking my Louboutins.”

He snorts. “Gonna be some time before you’re back in them.”

The oven timer goes off and almost immediately, her stomach rumbles. He snickers and she punches him lightly on his arm. “10 minutes,” he says, getting to his feet. “The chops need to rest and I’ll finish off the salad.”

She watches as he bustles around the kitchen again. Fifteen, twenty years ago, she would have chafed at a man telling her what to do, this sort of domesticity and the idea that she needs to rely on a man. Yet, here she is. Here _he_ is. And she wouldn't have it any other way. 


End file.
